Satish Verma, 23 november 2016
I am in retreat, for a music
of visitation,
playing with the words.
Mission failed,
the upheaval starts in the islands
of void, to find out
who was unglazed.
Folding the protuberance
in a pilfered fidelity, the shards
had no input in violence.
Mistrial. A half-mad moon
crashes on grass. The fireflies
resume the journey
to darkness.
The fangs were out
in green charm, in fierce silence
of the exhumed vault.
Satish Verma, 22 november 2016
The frozen voice hangs on the
door. A crowd waits.
Midnight explosions
will start soon
to herald a benevolent sky-
for squatters.
In rise and fall of an empire
I won't put any label
to generation drift. The
changing geography will
take care of the ashes.
A ragpicker will tell the story.
Ambulatory moon
had become economical, blanching
the stained dreams only
like our land's wounds.
The sea of hate lies naked before us
to sweep the carcasses. I know not
how to become omnivorous.
Satish Verma, 21 november 2016
And you explore me-
to the limits of enchantment.
As I was-
dying in a nonfiction.
Half brothers-
were moving like pincers
to catch a pen
like a little solidier.
Sad little god was telling
I do,
I am moving in non-existent darkness
for a sundial.
A lobster-
was trying to climb on
an ancient throne.
He wanted to become a neoking.
And throw his weight for the kittens
and unborn dogs.
Satish Verma, 20 november 2016
The supermoon was rising with
a great aplomb to shame the stars.
At night the buttercups wage a war.
Come unpretending, as you, not him, -
on the lake, becoming a stranger to
yourself. There ia an endless nocturnal confession.
Do you know the poison tree blooms,
when the golden eagle rises to take a dive
on the row of funerals.
Joe Breunig, 19 november 2016
Emotional scars, not wounds, document
the totality of my Life experiences;
even though my spirit hasn’t yet shed
its temporary, earthly encasement,
this fleshly clay of human brokenness
cautions me to always be ever mindful
of my blessed Lord and His sacrifice.
Pretending to overlook the preciousness
of this gift of Life, that was bestowed
to me, was an act of absolute foolishness
that kept me apart from Him; ignorance
on my part, insured that Grace flowed…
until my insight was lovingly obtained!
Being honest, with myself, allowed me
to be humbled and bowed before my Lord.
Through genuine vulnerability, I gained
my connection me to a God of redemption.
Though I have suffered, like many others,
I’m not alone; a pained confession of my
brokenness led me towards… His Salvation!
Author notes
Inspired by:
Luke 15:11-32; Rom 10:9-10
Learn more about me and my poetry at:
http://amzn.to/1ffo9YZ
By Joseph J. Breunig 3rd, © 2016, All rights reserved.
Satish Verma, 18 november 2016
Let be it.
The little bowl abandoning
the unreachable pink-light.
Ambrosia-
was searching a geometric center
of a smoking hub.
Flame-
of a bonefire was leaping
towards a topless tumbler.
The midriff
will spell a disaster.
A nomadic-
sleepwalker had become incandescent,
starts a prayer
for a condemned enemy.
My body was a river.
flowing-
on the impacted rocks of violence.
Was non-violence still relevant
in turbulent times?
Give me some unreason today.
Satish Verma, 17 november 2016
The sizzling legs wait for
an infinitesimal pause
to learn on approaching zero.
I am not cultish:
the egg has walked out
on a dwarf mother.
The dead horse was rising
after eating dirt. Naked
flame will decide for –
the rights of a man in a
hot night. Deferred a perfect
landing on cherries. The
colors were fighting
for the supremacy of
twisted necks.
Satish Verma, 16 november 2016
Interlude cheats:
the mind fails to understand.
Demining
refutes the salt.
You know:
the self-knowledge takes you to a tormentor
for intimate relationship. A dirty hand
scrapes the script.
A sudden flight, you do not want
to face the sun.
I pick up a book
and hide my face.
Parkinson’s dilemma:
The psychic persona
was shaking or tremors in thought.
Now unclasping.
Satish Verma, 14 november 2016
A nascent cry
demands the signature
of space.
I will start the self destruction-
clawing back
on the land of
betrayals.
The rule of sky was at stake.
Trees were burning
and the birds
want to grasp
the stark reality of notional violence.
In dark hour
I know not words
to lift the eyelids
the cloud, the flowers, the blood!
Satish Verma, 13 november 2016
Now burns the stillness of thoughts.
Be my enemy.
Ants are running out
of the eye.
Nightmares:
I am collecting the ashes from
the burning ghats.
The steps to the lake are disappearing
in the blood of moon.
The dogs-
are carrying away a half-burnt leg.
It stinks
stinks
the whole river, all night
all day.
Don’t shut the window
I am crying.
•
Tin man was walking on the sea
of words.
He did not want to utter F………out.
The hirsute triangle
pops up, every time
you close your eyes.
All night he was dreaming
he had become inert, like a corpse.
Can you start a salvage chemo?
So that I can levitate in emptiness
and meet
my arithmetic
midway like cherry blossom
falling, yet not falling.
You will never understand me.
I was waiting for the night
beyond the sky
beyond the stars.
•
The stigma
the style.
No pollen wants to land on your cherry
Stainless shirt waves a white flag
to stop the war.
I am not a cherry picker
in a moonlit night
undressing the smile.
It is for you, the next life
a little wee
if I don’t come back
from the sea of carnage
pure as a fish.
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